


No Dog Can Serve Two Masters

by Avia_Isadora



Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avia_Isadora/pseuds/Avia_Isadora
Summary: Giulia Farnese longs for escape from her miserable marriage, but sees an unexpected chance to seize her freedom.  Takes place during Season 1, Episode 1.
Relationships: Rodrigo Borgia | Pope Alexander VI/Giulia Farnese
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	No Dog Can Serve Two Masters

When she was ten, her older brother had a puppy. It was a boarhound, and at six months old was all feet and lapping tongue. Her brother spent a great deal of time with it, teaching it to sit and stand at his side patiently and motionlessly. The puppy got treats for doing it well, and not for doing it wrong. The stablemaster said this was the best way to train a hunting dog.

Giulia watched enviously. It seemed her brother was having a lot of fun. One day, when he was at his lessons, she went to the stableyard and found the puppy, who came willingly enough to her. “Sit!” she said, pointing to the ground beside her as her brother did. The puppy sat, its tail wagging madly, then stood up again pawing at her skirts for a treat.

The stablemaster stopped her. He didn’t yell, not at her nor at the puppy. It would be bad training for dog or girl. “You can’t teach him to obey you,” he explained. “He must learn to only obey your brother.”

“But why?” Giulia had asked.

The stablemaster’s face darkened. “No dog can serve two masters,” he said quietly. “If you spoil the pup, he’ll never obey your brother again. He’ll serve you instead, and he belongs by right to your brother. It’s his dog.”

Giulia thought of this entirely unexpectedly nine years later, watching the gorgeous procession through the heart of Rome. There were no dogs in it, at least not the four-legged kind. 

A new pope had been elected; the celebration was enormous, not in the least because the commons loved the free food and alms given away. Giulia gave alms herself, because it was done and because of guilt. Surely feeding the children of the poor even just a little bit would be seen by God as a step in the right direction. 

She watched the procession from a balcony belonging to her husband’s uncle, a man who was certain to chaperone her adequately during the weeks her husband was away, a man who was a stickler for propriety and would not so much as let her attend Mass without two of his hand-picked attendants, much less let her visit the home of any friend. She would remain behind these walls. She would watch from above in her dress the color of boarsblood, her hair caught in a golden net. 

Bishops and cardinals paraded, their retinues bearing standards of noble houses. Soldiers with shining breastplates marched, pikes in hand. Crowds screamed. Some fell to the ground, kissing the earth where they had walked. Giulia watched, her husband’s uncle beside her, as though she might throw some letter to someone. 

And who would that be? She had no friend in Rome. She could meet no one. Her husband did not trust her, and well he ought not. She did not deserve his trust. She did not deserve him either, some part of her deep inside whispered. She had done nothing, nothing to deserve a lifetime of torment. Or if she had the punishment, surely she had nothing to fear from the sin.

The horns blared. The marching soldiers gave way to the papal litter, glorious with gold and silver. There was the Pope like a little doll. He didn’t move, just sat there with his hands folded about his scepter, white gloves pristine, white robes shining. People swooned or cheered according to their nature.

“Most of them hate him, you know,” her husband’s uncle said.

“Who?” Guilia replied. If he had said something before, she had missed it.

“The Spaniard. The interloper. That Borgia.” He shrugged. “They say he has a pack of bastards and he’s made one a bishop.”

The litter came closer. Beneath his high miter, his face was solemn. He was older than her husband by a decade or more, but there were laugh lines about his mouth, a kind of weary wisdom in his gaze. It was not a terrible face. Worldly and cynical perhaps, but there was no rage there. She had seen rage enough, and how it manifests.

“Why do they bow to him then?” Giulia asked.

Her husband’s uncle snorted. “Everybody is somebody’s bitch,” he said.

“No dog can serve two masters,” she said. The litter passed, the procession following. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Giulia said. “Something my father’s stablemaster said to me once.” A bitch might have to have a master, but if she had the choosing of it, it would be the one who spoiled her with treats. The only way to be free of one master would be to trade him for another, a man so powerful her husband could never touch him. Surely he could not be worse.

But to set one’s aim upon the Pope? It was a grave sin, but she was no stranger to such. Could she do it? Giulia considered cooly, looking out over the crowd. She was beautiful still, and he was a man known for carnality. But surely he had many beauties at his disposal. She must set herself apart, reach him in some unexpected way, offer some pleasure only imagined, paint a picture that would be irresistable. How do you catch a clever man? You must connive and contrive together. Tempt, but let him lead. Offer, but allow oneself to be seduced. The nets must be set with audacity and circumspection alike. One must offer oneself for use to the man one would use.

The last of the procession turned the corner, part of the crowd following, the rest milling about in a hundred conversations.

“Are you ready to come in, Giulia?” her husband’s uncle asked. “The festivities are over.” 

“Yes,” she said, gathering her deep skirts about her. “It moved me with its solemnity, uncle. I am nearly brought to tears.” He looked at her, and she touched her hand to her eye, making her voice as hesitant as a young girl’s. “Perhaps, if it suits you, my lord, you might spare your attendants to accompany me to confession this week? I have much upon my soul.”

“Of course,” he said, and stood back to let her preceed him through the door. He could not see her smile.


End file.
